Did they send him off? Not they; not by six dollars, which they were glad to pay him every week, for the sake of keeping such a good workman in their office. The men and boys in the office, nick-named him “the Ghost,” on account of his pale complexion. I could not tell you all their tormenting tricks, which never kept Horace from working steadily on; or how they got the black, inky, printer’s balls, and rubbed them all over his yellow hair, and played other roguish tricks to torment him; and how he kept steadily on with his work, never getting angry, never noticing their nonsense, till they were forced to let him alone, for it is no fun to keep on trying to plague any body who don’t mind it a bit. I couldn’t tell you all his adventures, but I will tell you that when he earned money he always sent nearly the whole of it to his father and mother, never buying what young lads like best to spend money for, in the way of eatables and new clothes. I will tell you that he did become a printer, and astonished every body by his learning and intelligence; that he not only became a printer but an editor, and a member of Congress, and what is better, always in his paper takes the part of the working-people and farmers, among whom he was brought up, instead of turning his back upon them and getting proud because he grew rich; and famous—he tells them all about new plows, and new breeds of cattle, and how to manage their farms to the best advantage, and always has a kind, encouraging word for those who, like himself, are struggling to get on in the world without friends or fortune; and that is the best part of the whole. And now, when the carrier drops his paper at your father’s door, I want you to read the articles Horace Greeley writes for it, and feel proud, if he does not, of him and of the New York Tribune.
A WALK I TOOK.
Did you ever see the New York Battery? Of course you have, if you are a New Yorker. You have stood a thousand times looking toward Staten Island, over the blue water, and seen the gallant ships, and the little pleasure-boats, and the mammoth steamers, and listened to the far-off “yeave-ho,” of the good honest sailors, and felt the fresh sea-breeze fan your heated cheek; sat down under the shady trees, and watched the children roll upon the grass, and heard their merry shouts. Not the children of the rich—no; luckily for poor children, the Battery, one of the most beautiful spots in New York, was long ago voted “unfashionable;” after that, of course, it would never do for any body who wished to be thought any body, to walk there, and to admire this beautiful view or enjoy the cool shade of the lovely trees—no, indeed. So these fashionables left the beautiful Battery to the poor people, and I thanked God for it, as I sat there under the trees, one hot summer afternoon, and saw them come streaming in through the gates, from the filthy alleys, and by-streets, with their little barefooted children, and their care-worn anxious-looking wives. They had it all to themselves now, no fear of intruding, for, as I told you, nobody who cared to be thought fashionable would ever dare to venture there, much less sit down beside them on the benches. But I was not fashionable, so I sat there and watched the face of the tired, worn-out mother, and saw her faded eye brighten, as it rested on the blue water and the beautiful sunset clouds, enjoying the cool wind as it lifted the tangled curls from her sick baby’s face. Her poor little baby! who had been shut up in a dark underground room all day, while his mother stood scrubbing out clothes at the wash-tub—ah! it was quite another thing for them this fresh sea-breeze, this pretty grassy velvet carpet, dotted with butter-cups and dandelion blossoms. The little baby hardly knew its own mother’s face, it looked so pleasant and fresh and happy; hardly knew her voice, which grew softer and sweeter, though she did not know it, as she felt that God had made some things for the poor as well as the rich; and as I sat beside them, and watched the little pale baby tumble round on the soft grass, picking butter-cups, I thanked God, as I told you before, that the Battery had become “unfashionable,” so that these poor creatures and I, could go there and enjoy all this beauty without having it spoiled by their foolish presence. Just as I was going away from the Battery, thinking of these things, I saw a group of emigrants before me, who had just landed from some ship. How oddly they were dressed! Most of them were young, hale, and strong; and glad to leap from the rocking vessel to the shore, which they had been told was the “poor man’s paradise.” On they went, gazing bewilderingly about, jostled hither and thither as they passed through the streets. Strange sights, strange sounds, strange faces all. There was nothing there to remind them of the old “fatherland.” How odd the vehicles, how curious the houses, how new the dresses; how little all the busy people about them seemed to care what became of the poor emigrants in a strange land.
Now, as the emigrants pass along, still gazing, still wondering, they see a church. They understand that! Ah! the great loving heart of God beats for his children in all lands, beneath all skies! And so the poor emigrants stopped, and the old man reverently uncovered his silver head; the child hushed its gleeful prattle; the rosy maiden checked her merry laugh, and with one accord they all knelt upon the pavement, to render thanks to Him who held the winds and waves in the hollow of His hand, and who had brought them safely to this foreign land.
It was a holy and beautiful sight! The man of business stared at that kneeling group as he rushed by, and for the first time for many, many a day, he thought of the long-forgotten prayer at his dead mother’s knee; and the half-way Christian crimsoned with shame, as he looked at these poor emigrants, and remembered how the noisy voices of the world had drowned for him the still, small whisper of God’s Spirit.
Ah! my dear little children, believe me, there are many good sermons which are never preached in churches.
SUSY FOSTER.
Don’t know Susy Foster? bless me! I thought every body knew Susy. Did you never meet her trudging to school, with her satchel and her luncheon? did you never look at her and wonder how people could ever call Susy Foster “homely?” Did you never notice how many different shades of color her eyes would take while you were talking to her? and how the blood would come and go on her pale cheek? Did you never notice her stoop to pick up a cane for some old man, whose limbs were so stiff, that it was difficult to do it for himself? Did you never see her help some younger child safely across the muddy, crowded street? Did you never see her give away her scanty luncheon to some little girl who had eaten no breakfast? Did you never see her walk round an ant hill on the sidewalk, instead of walking over it? Did you never see her in school recess, helping some child, whose wits were not as quick as her own, to do a puzzling sum in arithmetic, or teach her some long word in geography? Did you never see her thoughtfully tie up a little schoolmate’s shoe, for fear the loose string would trip her on the sidewalk? or untie a knot in her bonnet-strings, or pin her cloak together for her when the button came off? Did you never see her put her arm round a little child, who was crying because her school-fellows had made fun of a big patch on her gown? Did you never hear her sing when school was over, “I want to be an angel?” and did tears never dim your eyes, that a little thing like her, who was only a poor little errand-girl, apprenticed to Miss Snip, the milliner, and who never knew what it was to be loved by father, or mother, brother or sister, should be so much kinder to every body, and so much better than yourself, who had all these and many more blessings? Susy Foster homely? I never saw her little brown head, but there seemed to me to be a halo round it, such as one sees on pictures of the infant Jesus. Susy Foster homely? She is not homely, now. The bright sun, as it slants across the village green, goes down upon the little childish group who come tripping out of the old school-house, but Susy is not among them, her seat in school is vacant, her satchel lies idly on the shelf. Miss Snip still scolds and frets, but Susy does not hear her; the spider weaves his busy web upon the wall in Susy’s garret, but there are no little curious lonely eyes to watch him. The old blind man at the street corner, stands leaning on his staff, listening till he is weary, for Susy’s pleasant voice. He did not see the poor’s hearse, as it rumbled past him with little Susy in it; but some day the film will fall from his sightless eyes—not here—and he will see Susy, and many like her, of whom the earth was not worthy.
“FEED MY LAMBS.”
What can that gentleman be doing with all those children? there is one whole car quite filled with them. He is not their father, that is very certain, though he is as kind to them as if he were. No, he can not be their father. Some of those little faces are I Irish, some Scotch, some French. They all look happy, and yet they are leaving father and mother, brothers and sisters, never more perhaps to meet them again in this world.